


take a sick day or two

by usabuns



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (not directly stated but implied), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff without Plot, Hance - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, No Angst, Polynesian Hunk (Voltron), Sickfic, Vomiting, stupid references to pop culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 10:39:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11804334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usabuns/pseuds/usabuns
Summary: The chronicles of Sick!Lance.(Or: snippets of Hunk taking care of his boyfriend, complete with Lance complaining the whole time.)





	take a sick day or two

**Author's Note:**

> i started this like last year with only the first 5 paragraphs or so, and then i found it & told myself to finish it... so here it is. unbeta'd, tell me if there are any typos!

The grass is still wet with early morning dew, and only half the yard is bathed in dawn's sun—the other half is dark, obscured by the shadows of the house and trimmed shrubbery. Lance stands to the right of a garden filled with growing tomatoes and green peppers, in the coldness of a long, gloomy umbra. 

He steps into the sunlight, and it tickles his cheeks with a gentle heat, the promise of warmth beckoning him forth. But Lance tugs the zipper of his jacket further up and treads backwards into the shade again, Autumn leaves crinkling underfoot as he moves. 

His fingertips tap against a verdant mug; in its contents is his mother's signature hot chocolate recipe, that's spiced with cinnamon and garnished with two puffy marshmallows that bob up and down against the surface of the brown liquid. 

Lance takes a moment to adjust his scarf, and resolves to sipping more of his drink. A cool gust grazes his nose, and pushes his hair in all directions, so he shivers, steps back into the sun, wraps the scarf tighter around his neck, and then goes back into the dark. 

The process repeats. 

Because his damn body temperature keeps on fluctuating, no matter what he does to counteract each high or low point. Nothing feels comfortable. 

Lance sniffles. The rim of the mug comes to his lips and some scalding cocoa races down his throat, past his dry mouth and sick-laden tongue. 

He shouldn't even be outside. And yet here Lance is, still very much running a high fever and still very much outside. 

The back door swings open behind him, and Lance flinches at the sound. 

“—Oh Lance, my dear, my _honey_...” Ouch. More than one sickening pet name used in the same sentence. And what's worse, Hunk says it in an intensely serious manner. A light, guilty chuckle briefly passes through the aforementioned Lance's lips. “I told you to stay in bed.” 

“At least I have a hot drink with me.” Lance tilts his head to the side, so at least Hunk can see his profile. There is a slight pause, but Hunk doesn’t even bother to issue a rebuttal, so Lance continues after clearing his throat, “You tell me to do a lot of things. And most of them I end up not doing.” Hunk's pouting now, his brows forming an angry crease and his arms crossed sharply. Lance sneezes and looks away. “So, just saying, you really need to work on your skills as an authoritative figure in my life.” 

“I’m aware.” Hunk gives a low grumble, but nevertheless places his hands on each of Lance's forearms and pulls him into the warmness of his own chest. He props his head onto one of Lance's shoulders delicately, then leans in so his lips brush against his ear. “But you’re not gonna get any better if you keep going out in the cold.” 

Lance yawns, shrugging his shoulders. He was playing a dangerous game. “...Okay, that was a little better. But I think you can convince me more. _Really_ make me feel guilty for sneaking out.” 

“Fine. Just remember that you asked for this.” For a split second, Lance swears he can just hear the smirk forming on the other's lips. 

Hunk's arms coil themselves around Lance's waist and upper body; they squeeze him tightly as Hunk peppers kisses along Lance's neck and jaw. The latter's butt is pressed firmly against the former's groin area. Lance blushes, but does not make any verbal signal of defeat or displeasure. 

It's then that Hunk lifts up the hem of Lance's jacket, and exposes his bare abdomen by also bringing up his shirt underneath. Lance feels himself grow hot, even though they're still in the shade. Hunk's fingers wander around his flesh, stroking and tapping along his wiry muscles. A chill goes up Lance’s spine. “This is damaging my self-esteem, I hope you know.” 

“Believe me, _I know_ ,” Hunk purrs back, and Lance places his fingertips atop Hunk's. He's warmer now, at least. “But I can't have you sick.” Lance jerks his cup, almost spilling the hot chocolate in the process, and shakily brings it up to his mouth. Hunk's thumb pulls at the fabric around Lance's crotch, straining the metal button of his jeans, and— 

“—Damn you,” Lance growls under his breath, nearly dropping the mug. He fumbles out of Hunk's iron grip to see him with a cocky smirk on his face. Lance is clutching his hot chocolate and readjusting his pants. “We're outside, it's seven in the morning, and you're trying to pull this shit? People can _hear_ us!” 

Hunk laughs, because he knows Lance doesn't really care if anyone hears or not: he just wants an excuse for getting so frazzled. “Maybe I _am_ jumping the gun just a little bit. Let's go inside.” 

“Whatever,” pouts Lance, but he swings the door open and steps over the threshold nonetheless.  
  


* * *

  
“You didn’t put any of that weird junk in it, did you?”

Lance can hear the crows beyond his bedroom windows, which are cawing on their tree branches and providing a ceaseless white noise that he isn’t sure if he likes. Thick drapery is drawn tightly over the glass, though, but if Lance could see those loud motherfuckers he would gladly flash them the so-called bird, because it really is hard to relax like this. 

And although Hunk is tending to the crumpled blankets and blowing off Lance’s food in the meantime, Lance still finds it in himself to complain. He just _loves_ being coddled. It’s just second nature to him. 

“Normal people chop up celery and put it into chicken noodle soup, Lance. Haven’t you ever been to a restaurant?” 

Lance’s voice is drawled with a nasally tone when he says, “No, never in my twenty-three years of being alive. Not once. Never ever.” 

Hunk rolls his eyes at the obvious sarcasm, finally sitting himself down at the foot of the mattress. “It adds to the flavor.” 

“Just because they do that at restaurants doesn’t mean it’s normal. It’s just _gross_ ‘cause— I mean, then there’s like, little weird green vegetables floating around in the broth.” 

“You really have absolutely _no_ palate,” Hunk scoffs as he pushes the wooden, pop-up table closer to the edge of Lance’s bedside. “I’m not making another batch. Deal with it and eat up already, _princess_.” 

Lance grumbles under his breath about the nickname, but sits up and grabs the spoon off the napkin on the table. He taps it against the ice cube floating in the stew, swirling it around with his eyes averted. “If we were on that show, I’d totally chop you right now.” 

“ _Please_. Like they’d ever make _you_ a judge. Now stop prolonging your suffering and get to it already. You’ll feel better.” 

The recipe this time, in itself, is relatively simple—Lance knew instantly that Hunk had restrained himself from going all-out and making it hopelessly complex. 

Inside the small bowl he’d provided is a light, saffron-colored stock that’s still steaming, filled nearly to the brim and flavored with beef and potatoes. Chunks of carrots, parsnips, and finely cut chicken pieces are underneath the surface of the soup, along with the stupid _celery_ he’d begged Hunk not to include—it must’ve been an act of revenge for sneaking outside earlier. The noodles chosen were flat and wide, _pappardelle_ style, cooked perfectly and seasoned with pepper, crystal salt, cayenne, and various crushed herbs. 

Lance is acutely aware of Hunk watching him intently as he lifts up a spoonful, breathing in as much of its scent as he can with a stuffed nose, and blows light puffs of air onto it carefully, cooling it off. It smells of warmth and home, and—Hunk. The smallest half-smile graces Lance’s lips as he brings the spoon up to his mouth, chewing the solids and swallowing the broth until—he scrunches up his entire face, a frown replacing his smile. 

Hunk notices, of course, and immediately jumps up, leaning closer toward Lance with concern written all over his features. “—What? Is it not good?” 

“No, are you—are you kidding? Of course it’s good, _amazing_ , but it’s just…the celery. There’s a lot of it—” 

“—Oh my _God_ , Lance, must you _always_ be so difficult?” 

“Yes, I most definitely _must_. It’s my job.” 

“Well, you’re really good at what you do, I’ll give you that.” Hunk sidles closer to him, legs dangling off the side of the bed, and gently hangs his arm over Lance’s shoulders. Lance, in turn, leans his head in the crook between Hunk’s chest and shoulder. Above him, Hunk looks down at him suspiciously. “You better finish all of it.” 

Lance pouts, shrugging. “I will—eventually.” As if to dissipate Hunk’s urging to eat, he grabs his spoon and swallows a few more bites, not meeting Hunk’s eyes. He’s scooping up the soup by weaving around the clumps of celery and shoving them aside, which earns him quite a few playful nudges from Hunk, but he ultimately doesn’t say anything snarky. 

It’s only a matter of time before Lance finishes all the solid parts and drinks the broth up, licking the bowl clean with everything gone except for the celery slices—which are soggy, now, and stick to the bottom of the bowl. 

“Guess you’re real good at avoiding your problems, huh?” Hunk quips, but he already knew that. Still, Lance mentally curses himself for speaking too soon. 

Lance turns to him, scowling, but presses his face into Hunk’s side; he wraps his arms around his barreled chest and pulls himself closer, resting his eyes as Hunk lets out a breath. “Shut up.” 

Hunk kisses the top of Lance’s head, humming lowly and sending a shiver up Lance’s spine. But Lance doesn’t move, only buries himself further into Hunk, swaddling himself in his shirt. “Food coma?” 

“A little. Maybe. That was a pretty big bowl—” 

At that, Hunk can’t help but chuckle just a bit, and then adjust his body so he’s fully holding Lance with both his arms, allowing him to lean against his chest and use it as a makeshift pillow. “Then get some rest, dude.” 

Lance only replies with a certain and quiet, “Don’t have to tell me twice.”  
  


* * *

  
Lance had insisted upon putting the air conditioner up to an insane amount, because being sick makes you so insanely _hot_ —and not in a warm, cuddly way—that you just want to shove your body into a freezer.

Hunk hadn’t really blamed him at the time (he’d pitied him, actually, because Lance had woken up from his earlier nap so sweaty and exhausted that Hunk almost put himself at fault), and obliged like the good person he was. 

Now, he was sort of blaming Lance. Hunk had never been one to handle the cold very well, and—this time is no exception. 

Currently, they both sat atop the brown, fabric sofa that occupied the living room, with Lance thickly covered in blankets upon blankets and splayed over Hunk’s left side. The worst part about the whole situation wasn’t Lance’s closeness—it was the lack of it. He’d taken all the blankets, clumping them all over his form, and had draped barely even half of one on top of Hunk’s increasingly chilly body. 

“ _Lance_ ,” mumbles Hunk, through a sleepy moan, craning his head and then resting his chin in the crook of Lance’s neck. Lance stirs next to him, giving only a slight groan in response. Hunk’s yawn is heavy, and his eyes are half-glazed when he says, “—Get over here, blanket hog…” 

“I’m _sick_ ,” Lance protests in a whiny voice. “I deserve all the blankets. ‘Sides, you have your natural body heat.” He nuzzles his face into Hunk’s soft chest, letting his arms fall limp around his waist. 

And although Hunk instinctively starts massaging Lance’s back with one hand, he still sticks his tongue out at Lance defiantly. “But it’s, like, sixty in here!” Lance only snorts at that, lowering himself down further into a lying position and pressing one side of his cheek into Hunk’s belly, effectively utilizing it as a pillow. Hunk starts tracing shapes into Lance’s nape. “We’re _islanders_ , Lance, how do you expect me to survive this with no warmth if you need seven blankets to get through?” 

His logic is sound, but—Lance will never admit that. He lets out a quiet hum, and decides to make it look like he’s giving in because Hunk’s just a little bit too cute. “ _Fine_... But you only get one.” 

“Thanks, babe.” Hunk winks at him through a delicate smirk, taking his other hand and ruffling Lance’s hair. 

“—Not the Vader one, though, I like that one. You can have the Power Rangers blanket.” 

“Oh, gee, how kind of you,” Hunk quips in a deadpan voice, lifting up said topmost blanket off of Lance and flinging it onto his right side. The relief might as well be instantaneous. Once that’s resolved, Hunk paws at Lance, tugging his shirt. “C’mere, you’re not—you’re not _close_ enough.” 

Lance coughs dully, shaking his head lightly. “No, Hunk. You’ll get sick. Even this level of cuddling is pushing it some.” 

“I won’t. I’m, like, 99.9% immune to stuff like this.” 

“What about the other .1%?” 

“That’s not relevant—” 

“— _Hunk_. Do I really have to start being the rational one in this conversation? Because I don’t want to be. At all.” 

Hunk whistles innocently, patting Lance’s back. “ _No_...” 

Lance looks up at him, scowling, but closes his eyes again and snuggles just a tad bit closer, all the way until his temple is planted against Hunk’s shoulder. 

There is a beat of silent bliss, where only Lance’s steady breathing is heard, but then Hunk leans his mouth dangerously close to Lance’s ear and whispers in a low voice, “Maybe I should, I don’t know, check and see if you’re still running a fever?” 

Lance’s voice is part mildly concerned, and another part curious, like he doesn’t think Hunk’ll pull this off. “Are you gonna do what I think you’re gonna do?” 

“Oh yeah.” Hunk takes his hand and lifts Lance’s face up by the chin, his palms cupping his jawline, and puckers his lips. 

“Oh my _God_ ,” laughs Lance, playfully squirming under his touch but dutifully keeping his face still. “You’re killin’ me, smalls.” 

Hunk says nothing, but grins brightly; in a matter of seconds, he soothingly pulls Lance closer, and brushes his forehead clear of sweat droplets and stray strands of his immaculate hair. It’s there that Hunk firmly presses a chaste, full-lipped kiss. He lingers there for a short while, still holding Lance’s face in his warm hands. 

And Lance _absolutely_ melts from his skin’s contact with Hunk’s supple lips. He flushes, a certain hotness spreading all over his body and making him _itch_ at the thought of just tugging Hunk down on top of him and— 

“—Feels like your fever’s gone down,” Hunk notes, once he’s removed his mouth from the center of Lance’s forehead and poked him gently in the cheek with his pointer finger. “Still there, but definitely lower than before.” 

“Y-Yeah, that’s—” Lance takes a sharp inhale, then says through gritted teeth, “That’s good.” He diverts his eyes as Hunk shifts underneath him, finding a more comfortable position and then readjusting his fuzzy blanket. 

But Lance gets more _ideas_ in his head—a cocky half-smirk forms on Lance’s lips as he shifts his gaze back to Hunk. He drapes himself over Hunk’s lap, slinging his legs around his hips, and shoots his boyfriend a charming smile. 

Lance is really just too in the zone—he can’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around Hunk’s neck, and delicately unknotting the ties of Hunk’s headband, all while keeping that delicious eye contact. Lance twirls the orange fabric around his fingers, watching Hunk’s expressions minutely flicker. “—You know that kissing me there isn’t gonna make you sick, though, right?” 

“‘Course I know… So should I kiss you somewhere else?” 

Hunk was just too good at this sometimes. But Lance won’t ever let him know that, because he simply can’t sound so desperate. “Oh, I don’t know, I guess you—” 

Lance is happily interrupted by the swiftness of Hunk’s lips connecting with his own as Hunk’s calloused fingers push against the back of Lance’s neck, edging him closer. The heat in surrounding atmosphere is so great that Lance doubts either of them will be needing blankets after this. 

Lance is far too exhausted to do any work—he lets Hunk do as he pleases, working his magic with his skillful tongue and roaming his hands all over Lance’s flat planes of exposed flesh. It makes him moan into the kiss, stroking the pumped muscles of Hunk’s biceps as he tastes warmness inside of his mouth. 

Hunk only backs off once he needs to breathe, wiping the saliva from his lips with the back of his hand. “I don’t even care if that gets me sick,” Hunk says earnestly, leaning his back into the cushions of the couch. 

“That means you’re gonna have to deal with my shit cooking, though,” Lance points out, cuddling back into his pile of blankets and leaving one last kiss along Hunk’s neckline. “And no celery in your soup.” 

Hunk goes silent, as if considering this, and then says, “Yeah, but it’ll be worth it if I get to use the Vader blanket.” 

“ _Dude_.” But instead of scolding him, Lance flashes a magnificent smile. “It’s _totally_ worth it.”  
  


* * *

  
The bathroom in their little apartment is plain, with eggshell-colored walls and white-tiled floors and a shower that doubles as a tub and a matching white porcelain sink and toilet. Even the lights are hopelessly simple, just yellow-tinted and encased in white plastic coverings. The small window is blurred, and so are the bathtub doors, but the shower curtains are the piece that really stands out, the only real thing that Hunk and Lance could personalize in the room: it’s white, but with horizontal stripes of turquoise and gold going all across it.

Lance had gotten very intimate with every detail of their bathroom decor later in the day, right about after three when his soup had decided to make a reappearance. 

“This room...is just so _drab_.” His entire face is shoved into the toilet bowl as he takes hard breaths, moaning and groaning and hoping the pain will go away. There’s always a quiet before the storm, in which Lance tries to will himself to stop puking, but it never works. He hadn’t even eaten that much. 

Hunk...feels bad, to say the least. Like he should’ve somehow known that Lance had also contracted a stomach bug. He knows it’s stupid to think that, but he can’t help his emotions on the matter. “So you keep saying,” yawns Hunk, rubbing circles into the gentle curve of Lance’s back, feeling the bones of his spine as he arches over, bracing himself. 

He throws up, again, and this time it’s long, the sounds of squelching and gagging all too familiar to Hunk. The smell is dreadful, almost horrible enough to make Hunk puke himself, but he clamps his mouth shut as Lance’s dry-heaving continues, sending a shockwave of guilt throughout the pit of his stomach. “Shh, shh… It’ll be okay. I’m here.” 

Hunk shudders, inching himself closer to Lance once he calms. Then: “Sorry,” he mutters quietly, massaging Lance’s shoulders and whispering reassurances into his ear, his eyes prickling with hot tears that he doesn’t allow to fall. 

“Not…your fault… W-Would’ve happened if I’d eaten or not,” Lance says meekly, pressing his cheek firmly against the rim of the bowl. Hunk twines his arms around Lance’s stomach, careful not to squeeze too tight. The discomfort in the air is almost palpable. “Mmmhnngggh…” 

Lance sucks in a shaky inhale, and Hunk’s breath hitches, his eye wide as he awaits the inevitable. When it happens again, it’s shorter, and doesn’t make Lance’s whole form tremble; it is a quiet storm, a subtle hurricane that rips from his open mouth and is over just as quickly as it starts. Hunk is thankful that it’s dying down, at least. 

Sighing, Hunk stands up, stretching out his back as Lance coughs up the last bits of his most recent throw-up. Eventually, he yanks his head backward from the bowl, fingers groping at his gut. 

“You need fluids,” Hunk urges, hand reaching to flush the toilet clean. “Do you think you can hold any drinks down?” 

“I...dunno. Maybe?” He doesn’t sound sure at all— So Hunk, eyebrows knitted in pity, smooths a palm over the back of Lance’s head and kneels back down to his level. 

“You should rest for a while, Lance.” 

“No, I— I’m fine, Hunk. I just need a second.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, huffing a long breath and exhaling heavily. “Can you...can you get me some ginger ale?” 

He nods. “Consider it done. Hang in there, bud.” 

Hunk returns minutes later with Canada Dry poured into a red Solo cup and a pill bottle with a name Lance has never seen before. And speaking of Lance—he’s still poised over the toilet bowl, but doesn’t look as disgusted and worn-out as he did a while ago. 

“I think I’m throwing up stomach acid at this point,” Lance drones, shaking his head. 

“That means it’s basically over with.” 

“You would know.” 

Hunk gives him a pointed look. “Duh. Of course I would.” 

Lance narrows his eyes at him, but takes the cup that he’d offered. “What kinda pills are those?” he asks, watching curiously as Hunk shakes two of them out of the bottle. They’re powdery and white, circular-shaped with a small indented line separating the two halves. 

“Dramamine,” Hunk says, without looking down. He deposits the pills into Lance’s palm, and when he raises his brows at him, Hunk explains, “They’re usually used for motion sickness, but— They’ll probably work for regular ol’ nausea, too.” 

“ _Probably_?” 

“Works for me,” Hunk scoffs, closing the toilet lid. “And you know how my stomach is.” 

Lance just shrugs and downs them both with a long chug of his drink. “I’m so exhausted.” 

“I figured you’d be. You up for a Mad Max marathon in bed?” 

“Only if we watch all the Alien movies after.” 

“It’s a deal.”  
  


* * *

  
Hunk wakes up to Lance kissing him.

He’s leaving wet trails of kisses along his neck, and then his chest, and then his belly, until Hunk finally opens his bleary eyes and offers up a drowsy smile. “I take it you’re feeling better?” 

“Oh, _definitely_.” And Hunk is certainly glad to hear it. Lance is obviously looking much better than the day previous, where he’d been puking his heart out and sleeping every other hour. There’s definitely more color to his complexion, too. 

“Good.” Hunk says it matter-of-factly, and filled with such sincerity that Lance just wants to keep kissing him forever. “You sure you still don’t wanna take any meds? Just in case?” 

“Nah, I’m okay— I’m willing to take that risk.” 

“Not what I would’ve done,” Hunk sits himself up, still laden underneath his covers, “but alright.” 

Lance laughs, shifting his legs, and takes Hunk’s hand into his own. “Thank you. For taking care of me. You’re a real saint, honestly—” 

“—Dawww,” coos Hunk, giving him a quick eskimo kiss and then squeezing Lance’s hands affectionately. “Make sure you drink lots of water still, so you can pee and get all the germs—” 

Hunk interrupts himself with a hard sneeze that’s soft and squeaky like a kitten’s. In front of him, sitting criss-crossed, Lance blinks, and does a horrible job of stifling his laughter. Again, Hunk sneezes, more loudly than the last time; there’s snot running down from his nostrils, and his eyes feel puffy and diluted. 

“Allergies?” Lance suggests through a deep belly-laugh, hands clutching momentarily at his sides. 

Hunk sulks, rubbing at his red, dripping nose. “I don’t,” he sneezes again, “I don’t _get_ allergies…” 

“What was that about the .1% being irrelevant? I hate to say I told you so,” Lance sing-songs, in a perfect mimic of Hunk (though, he really doesn’t hate it), “but I _did_ tell you so. You brought this upon yourself, _Hunky_.” He outstretches his fingers and teasingly pinches one of Hunk’s chubby cheeks. 

“That’s what I get for being a decent human being, I guess… Next time I’ll just let you suffer alone.” 

Lance clutches his chest in mock hurt. “Mercy!” But it fades, replaced by a look of sadness on his features; Lance gives Hunk big puppy-dog eyes and plants a kiss on his forehead. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” 

“ _I_ think it’s warranted.” 

“If you say so,” chides Lance as he hops off the mattress. He pulls the sheets up until Hunk grabs them, then commands him to lie down and rest. “I’m gonna go get the puke bucket. And the water. And some crackers maybe, instead of soup? And the nausea meds, and the Vader blanket, and… Well, you know the drill.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Like the back of my hand,” Hunk snorts, crossing his arms before falling back into the pillows. 

Had the kiss been worth it? Yes, it _absolutely_ had been. And Hunk wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> **⁺✧. hmu elsewhere:**   
> 
>
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